


The Dripping of A Faucet

by EmDammit54



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Drabble, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Murder, Shooting, Suicide, i'm sorry this is super messed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmDammit54/pseuds/EmDammit54
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it really is the simple things that do it for him. The tapping of a foot in a waiting room, the ticking of  a clock in class, the dripping of that fucking faucet in the middle of the night in this silent god forsaken house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dripping of A Faucet

**Author's Note:**

> So like this is messed up. and it's my first fanfic so go easy on me. This is in Harrys perspective and while Louis isn't referenced by name, he's the "pretty physics boy". this is also verrrry short

There's this incessant dripping noise, he recognizes somewhere deep inside his mind that it must be the faucet in the kitchen.

Dripping softly in the middle of the night. It's funny how these light things, little ticks like this can set someones insides on fire.

And it really is the simple things that do it for him. The tapping of a foot in a waiting room, the ticking of a clock in class, the dripping of that fucking faucet in the middle of the night in this silent god forsaken house.

It's enough to get his blood pumping, enough to have him glaring at his wall at two in the morning, breath coming in small pants. 

It's enough for him to want to plug the sink, wait an hour til it's full to the brim, to drag his shitty excuse for a father out of bed and push his head into the depths of the water until he fucking gurgles into it, until his tears mix with the water and he can't blink anymore.

It's enough to make him want to unhinge his jaw and bite into the skin underneath his fathers eye, cold and soggy from the water in the sink. He's dimly aware that the skin smells like dish-soap and the idea makes him chuckle warmly, dimples form on his face as he hovers over the still form of his fathers cold body, his teeth still hinged, breaking into the skin and letting the blood drip slowly into his mouth. He must look like some kind of rabid animal.

It's like copper and penny's and horrible memory's of being gagged with socks. But at the same time, it makes his heart race and he's never felt more alive. He chews hungrily and realizes that his teeth are not making much difference in the thickness of the mans skin. He digs into his pocket, pulls out a small pocket knife and unsheeths the blade, admiring the gleam in the stale kitchen darkness.

He slips it across the cheek. He slips it down his arm, down his torso, ripping his dirty shirt down the middle. He watches as the blood pools around him and he relishes in the warmth, of how it reminds him of hot baths on Sunday nights. Where his mum would pour cups of luke warm water over his head and preen over what a pretty boy he was. But then the baths took on a new meaning after she was gone. And the water became red tinted and he was always sore the next morning and the same ache inside makes him aware, makes him collect his tension and he pounces, punching the dead mans head with fists clenched tight. He's vaguely aware that his fists are covered in blood, that his knuckles are bruising obscenely and his face is wet from not only the blood of his lifeless father but the tears streaking down his face. It feels a lot like freedom.

He's mumbling words into the silence, fucking prick, you sick fucking piece of shit, how the fuck does this feel. Everything is unintelligible and he just keeps punching and pulling at the bodies hair, yanking short strands of it from his scalp.

His body is alive with anger, tense and terrifying as he stops the punches and presses his face into the mans neck, licking at the stains of blood covering over it. He presses his hands onto the neck below him, he presses until he can hear a crunch. He wants to break him, he wants to fucking ruin him just like- just like... He grabs his knife and slashes the neck, keeps slashing until more blood rushes, he can never get enough of the bright red staining the floor now. The diamond blue tiles losing their color and he vaguely realizes that they'll never get these stains up. 

He takes his time, struggling to lift the heavy weight of the man that used to be his father. He sets him into his favorite chair at the table. He pushes the chair forward as the head falls forward with a sickening crunch and paints part of the table red like a sponge.

He knows he's losing it. He knows when he isn't crying anymore, he's not shaking anymore. He makes tea, one cup. Two sugars and no fucking cream, you can't put cream. If you put cream he'll take his belt off. If you put cream he won't stop. He won't stop til he sees blood.

He sets the tea next to the bloodied head of his father, silently whispering things, I'm sorry it took so long, Daddy. I'm sorry. Please don't hurt me. Don't, please I promise I'll be a good boy next time. 

He gets to work scrubbing at the floors, he's on his knees for 3 hours straight. Scrubbing, scrubbing, without water, with just a sponge and he doesn't notice how he's simply rubbing the blood in circles. He's smelling dish-soap and penny's and thinking of his mums face on Sunday mornings, at church where she hands him change to put in the donation box. He's smiling because he's a good boy, his mum would be so proud of him taking care of her beautiful home life this. He was always clumsy, spilling things. He stands up, staring at the mess on the floor and smiling because in his mind he's done it, he's been good. He's cleaned up his bad messes and mum will love him still. 

He walks to his room and grabs his backpack, realizing that it's time to make his walk to school. He feels good about today, maybe he'll talk to that cute boy in physics today, he thinks as he slips his dads semi automatic into his coat. 

He's unaware of his white shirt, soaked in the wet blood of his father, his jeans not much better off. He walks to school with a wide smile, taking in the beautiful clouds in the sky and the light breeze. He doesn't notice the looks of his neighbors, tinged with worry and fear. 

He knows what he's about to do is going to get Mum to come back, to love him again. He's sure she'll cuddle right up to him and tell him how good he did, how he was so brave. He steps into the auditorium where around 30 of his fellow students gather first thing in the morning and reaches into the pocket of his jacket. He smiles hugely, dimples forming, not seeing the stares of the other students, taking in his state of dress as the silence in the room grows tense.

He pulls out the gun and he can't hear the screaming, he doesn't even notice that as his finger pushes the trigger and it hits the pretty Physics boy right underneath his eye, just like his father and the boy falls. Students are parting everywhere, running for the doors, screaming and crying as he rains more bullets into the masses.

He hits one. 

Two.

Three.

Four.

And it's back again. It's back again. There's a dripping. A dripping in his brain as he hits five.

Six.

Seven in the chest.

Eight in the leg and then nine in the neck.

He can feel the dripping, like it's a bug climbing into his ear, as his mother tells him he's a little fucking bastard, that she should have aborted him. He hears it as his father pounds into him, shoving his tiny face into the pillow, until he's too tired to cry anymore and his mom has already walked away from the doorway and hid in her room. He hears it as the kids snicker. They know. He knows they know. He's a slut. He's a sick piece of shit. He's done this, he did this, his hands are stained, he realizes when he looks down. He's covered in so much blood, he mumbles, as he sinks to his knees and he can hear people coming towards him. He knows they'll lock him away, he knows what he's done. 

He raises the gun and pushes it into his mouth, chuckles lightly as he realizes he's once again on his knees with something loaded in his mouth, and he pulls the trigger.

And the dripping, well, it stops.


End file.
